A month went by, the round up wagons was stringing out for the fall works, and the cow with the big "weaner" calf was hunting a hole. There was twenty-two riders with Jeff Nick's wagon, and amongst 'em a grinning from ear to ear at some joke a cowboy had sprung was Clint, and riding Smoky.
Long days of rest had put that cowboy in shape to ride, but not to ride broncs, and when he at last felt that he could make a hand at riding "circle," "herd," and "night guard" Smoky had been saddled and rode to the home ranch, where the wagon was to start from.
Smoky'd had a long month's rest before Clint saddled and rode him out that morning, and even tho the rider looked O. K. again to the little horse, there was a feel from the hackamore rein that as much as asked him not to buck. He'd bucked that day when Clint had met too much cow, and far as that goes, he'd bucked some at every saddling, but as the cowboy started him out for open country and the home ranch that morning he was made to feel that he should keep his head up for once and line out without a kink.
The home ranch had been reached a couple of days later, and there's where Smoky'd got his first look at a busy cow outfit's main camp. Cowboys was everywhere, and more of 'em than he could keep track of; big corrals full of horses, and more horses under the big sheds. Wagons and tents, and when the round up cook rushed out of a log house to one side and pranced up to try and shake hands with Clint, Smoky let out a snort and shied out of reach.
"Daggone it, Clint," says that hombre, "I was told you'd quit riding broncs—what in samhill do you call that spooky thing you're setting on now?"
"Some horse," answers Clint, grinning.
Smoky felt some easier when he was finally unsaddled and turned in amongst the other saddle horses. He took a good roll, shook himself, and proceeded to get acquainted. It didn't worry him none that very few of the ponies seemed to want his company and he was mighty busy going from one of the big corrals into another and giving 'em all the once over. He finally run acrost a bay gelding which seemed some familiar, and Smoky must of seemed the same to that gelding too for both of 'em started to show interest at once and came to meet one another.
Necks bowed, they touched nostrils, some explaining and understanding must of went on cause it wasn't but a few minutes later when each was scratching the other's neck like two brothers—and that's what they was, brothers. The bay horse was none other than the little colt, growed up, and which his mammy had brought in the bunch one day over three years before.
Signs showed where the saddle had been on his back too. A cowboy had run him in a couple of weeks before and passed the remark as he piled his rope on him that, "This little bay horse sure showed the makings of a cowhorse."